


all I ever knew of love

by mistymountainking



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Steve Rogers, Bottom Tony Stark, Canon-Typical Violence, Flashbacks, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, I love mess, M/M, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Mutual Pining, Post-Break Up, Protective James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony's Issues Have Issues, Top Steve Rogers, Top Tony Stark, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22429783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistymountainking/pseuds/mistymountainking
Summary: For six months, nobody knew that Tony Stark and Steve Rogers were dating.Which means no one knows they broke up six weeks ago.***a prompt fill for ishipallthings on tumblr, who asked for Steve/Tony + exes AU.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 42
Kudos: 718





	all I ever knew of love

**Author's Note:**

> This is on the longer side than I originally anticipated and not really well thought out, so it's a little all over the place, but hopefully not to its detriment...!

For six months, nobody knew that Tony Stark and Steve Rogers were dating.

Which means no one knows they broke up six weeks ago.

Looking back on it now, those six months were just stolen time, a pocket-life Tony knew he’d never get to live out to its fullest, but he likes to think he took advantage of every second of it.

That’s a lie. He wasted it. He knows that now, better than he’s known anything in his entire life, and that includes JARVIS’s coding and what it felt like when Obie forcibly removed the arc reactor from his chest. He spent six incredible, heartwarming, spine-melting, almost-picture-perfect months in a relationship with Steve Rogers, a man he’d been in love with for years before that, and no one knew about it. 

Because as it turns out, Tony Stark is a coward.

Tony puts down the razor and stares at himself in the mirror. A mask of dread with a freshly sculpted goatee stares back. It’s too early for that much feeling, but this is the position he’s put himself in.

It’s also his first day back in the city after spending the past six weeks in Malibu, “to make sure SI feels equally loved,” as he told the team at their last group dinner (while pointedly ignoring Steve sitting across from him at the table and the fact that even then he couldn’t _not_ see the way the man’s face fell at the news). 

Obviously that’s only half of the story, but no one needs to know about how Tony spent most of those six weeks moping around in that big empty house wearing grubby shirts and eating pints of half-melted Half Baked ice cream out of the container (and then exercising himself sick to make up for it).

Now, he’s got a fresh full-body tan from time spent in the sun, a slew of new tech ideas for the team (including an infinitely better low-profile tracking device for Natasha, because who says he doesn’t do nice things for people), a mostly-rested brain, and a packed schedule that will allow for very little—if any—interaction with Steve. 

_It’ll be fine_ , he tells himself, watching condensation streak through the remnants of steam on the mirror. This is just like any other breakup, only slightly complicated by the fact that he leads a team of superheroes with his ex, and was best friends with his ex for years before they got together, and still thinks the world of his ex, and still wants his ex, and is still madly in love with his ex. 

Just like he did in California, Tony doesn’t think about the bottomless pit of empty taking up valuable real estate in his stomach as he wanders from the bathroom and starts arranging himself into a vaguely Tony Stark-shaped person. 

Autopilot is as useful a function in the Iron Man suit as it is in the rest of his life, especially these past six weeks—buttoning his shirt, Tony notices but doesn’t worry about how he can’t feel the fabric under his fingers, or the pinch of his dress shoes as he pulls those on; the world has been slightly out of focus ever since he and Steve broke up, and the feeling of walking through life with only half the lights on upstairs and a black hole where his viscera used to be is all too familiar. 

It’s how he felt years ago, dying slowly, then quickly—not quickly enough—of palladium poisoning. 

_The device that is keeping you alive is also killing you._

He chooses a pair of gunmetal grey sunglasses with fluorescent red lenses to go with the Tom Ford suit he somehow managed to put on right. Before walking out the penthouse door, Tony checks himself in the massive, frameless mirror: everything is in its right place. He looks like had a nice vacation and came home without a care in the world. He doesn’t look like a man who broke his own heart out of cowardice and is now walking through life with self-inflicted blood poisoning. 

If he tries hard enough, harder than he did back then, no one will notice anything is wrong. 

It’s just Tony’s luck that the first person he runs into is Steve, glowing from a workout (it’s Thursday, Tony remembers, which mea ns cardio and time on the heavy bag) and just as beautiful as the last time Tony saw him. 

_“I’ll give you space, as much as you need, I promise. Trust me, this is for the best.”_

_Steve’s not crying, but it sounds like a near thing. His face is drawn, flush with emotions Tony doesn’t want to read into, but even distraught Steve is still the most gorgeous thing Tony’s ever seen. Then Steve is reaching out with both hands and he has to back away. “Tony, just, wait—”_

_He looks almost small, vulnerable in a way Tony isn’t used to, and the only thing he really wants to do in that moment, standing in Steve’s bedroom surrounded by moving boxes (an hour ago they were getting ready to move in together—funny, how quickly things change), is take Steve into his arms and keep him there where it’s safe. But that vaguely possessive urge living constantly under his skin is what led to this, this crossroads which finds Tony doing the one thing he never wanted to do: “I can’t, Steve, I’m...I asked you for all the wrong things and now you’re miserable, and you—God, you of all people deserve happiness. The least I can do now is let you go so you can find it.”_

_Tony manages to say it without dying, which might be a miracle. He’ll call the pope later and ask. When he leaves Steve’s room, it’s to the miserable sound of Steve’s voice breaking in the middle of Tony’s name. By the time he shuts the door behind him, it’s too late to wonder if this is all a huge mistake, but Tony still feels part of his heart splinter off to stay behind with Steve, where it belongs._

Funny how after six weeks away with no contact of any kind, all that R&R and R&D and B&Js and G&Ts, one look at Steve is enough to put Tony right back where he started, heartsore and winded like the hurt is forcing the air from his lungs. 

Steve looks—he looks _good_ , of course he does, but Tony was always especially weak for slightly disheveled and endearingly domestic Steve Rogers wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants. It doesn’t help that Steve looks _happy_ , like the past six weeks have done exactly what Tony dreaded and hoped they’d do when he broke up with him, like Steve’s had time to finally breathe freely, spread his wings a bit, experience the world in ways he never got to with Tony when they were together.

He looks lighter. Younger. Fuller. _More._ It’s enough to crush something in Tony that feels remarkably like one last ember of hope, the bitterly selfish hope that Steve was as wrecked by the breakup as Tony.

“Welcome back!” Steve says with a bright smile, wiping sweat from his brow with an end of the towel hanging around his neck. “How was California?” 

Tony is distantly aware of his mouth hanging open, but he’s too caught up in how awful he feels seeing that smile on Steve’s face to respond. He shouldn’t be _surprised,_ after all, that Steve is happier not dating Tony—it’s why Tony broke up with him in the first place. Steve was miserable, and now he’s not. Mission accomplished. 

“Hey,” he finally manages to respond, even as he ducks out of Steve’s path toward the kitchen to make coffee (he’s already had a cup, but he needs to busy his hands and have something to look at that’s not Steve’s perfect fucking face). “California’s the same as it ever was. Rhodey says hi.” 

Behind him, Steve hums thoughtfully. “Hi, Rhodey,” he says, knowing Tony will pass it on, because of course Steve would, and of course Tony will. Tony scoops ground coffee from a bag, not caring which one he’s dipping into, and fills the bottom of the French press as the electric kettle comes to a hissing boil. 

“Anything happen while I was gone?”

When Steve speaks again, he’s much, much closer, and Tony wishes like hell that that didn’t make every single hair on his arms stand on end, that the low baritone of Steve’s voice didn’t make Tony shudder and want to bend himself over the counter. That part of their relationship is over. He has to _move on._

“Not much,” Steve replies, easygoing, like having this conversation isn’t the last thing he wants to be doing this morning. Tony knows deep down that this is just Steve playing nice, doing his best to mend fences for the sake of the team. If possible, the knowledge just makes Tony feel worse, which he didn’t think was possible. “I’ve been working on putting together intel on possible new recruits, like we discussed. Want to take a look?” 

_Like we discussed_ , _he says_ , Tony thinks to himself as the kettle clicks off, ready to pour. Steve’s sense of diplomacy is truly on another level, considering how this exact topic of conversation came up in the first place. 

_“I’m not saying we’re not enough, Steve,” he says, willing his hands to stay at his sides, “I’m just saying it wouldn’t hurt to have more bodies on the team so that the next time we get hit with a Galactus or something like it, we’re not scrambling for reinforcements at the last minute.”_

_Steve, still sitting at the now-empty conference table, pinches the bridge of his nose and frowns._

_“What we_ need _is for the team—_ our team _—to work together better. We need to cultivate what we have, not pad the ranks and hope for the best.”_

_“And we will! But we can also think ahead and save ourselves a lot of stress and pain and suffering down the line.” Tony knows his frustration has reached its boiling point the moment he snaps: “I mean for fuck’s sake, Steve, I thought you were good at multitasking.”  
_

_The look Steve gives him is dark, but not exactly angry. It’s the kind of look he gets whenever he wants to make Tony listen to something Tony thinks he doesn’t want to hear. Usually it involves compliments or Steve verbally placing value on Tony’s life. It also usually involves—_

_Tony isn’t surprised when he blinks and finds himself pinned to the wall, Steve fitting himself in the space between his thighs like he belongs there (which he does. He absolutely does). One month in and the experience of Steve manhandling him like a pro still hasn’t lost its electric thrill; if anything, it’s only gotten headier, more dizzying, the best high Tony’s ever experienced, and it’s heightened by the fact that he’s the only one who gets to have it._

_He opens up for Steve’s bruising kiss like he'll die without it. Groaning, Tony falls deep into the pleasure of it, of Steve’s tongue fucking into his mouth like he owns the place, hot, wet suction unraveling any lingering arguments Tony might have. He throws his arms around Steve’s neck and a leg around his waist, a question in the gesture that gets answered immediately when Steve picks Tony up by his thighs and wraps both legs around his hips._

_Everything is heat and the raw, jagged edge of their mutual frustration, Steve scrambling at the zips on Tony’s undersuit with fumbling fingers even as his clever tongue continues its single-minded precision assault on Tony’s. Tony whines when he feels the skin of his ass and thighs meet the open air of the conference room. They’re thousands of feet above ground aboard the helicarrier, about to fuck in a public space, and even as Tony moans lewdly at the thought of being discovered_ in flagrante delicto _with Steve Rogers, a small and insidious part of him reels at it, desperate to keep this whole thing under wraps and to themselves._

_Steve is the best thing—person—Tony’s ever had. He’s been half in love with him for years and now, having him like this, Tony can’t believe how much time he wasted. Sometimes he catches himself thinking about how it’ll be when they’re old and grey and married, the soft domesticity of their well-deserved retirement, Tony working on vintage cars in the garage while Steve fills the top floor of a house with paintings, and it doesn’t scare him as much as it probably should._

_But he hasn’t told Steve how much the thought of going public scares him. How terrified he is of losing Steve to the rest of the world, which will tear them limb from limb the moment it learns of their relationship. The Stark PR machine will kick into overdrive to smooth things over, and on the surface everything will appear fine, but it won’t change the fact that they will never know privacy again; every photo taken of them in battle, out in the world, together or separate, will be subject to a level of scrutiny Tony knows only too well, but which Steve has never experienced. It’s horrible. Infuriating. Invasive, demoralizing, and not a little bit traumatizing. When Tony told Steve about Princess Diana’s death, long before any of this—them—started, he couldn’t wipe the memory of Steve’s devastated and furious expression from his mind for weeks._

_They’ll talk, eventually. For now, Steve takes Tony apart with his fingers, slick with lube he keeps in his belt, his other hand curled over Tony’s mouth so he can press up hard against him and whisper things in his ear, dirty promises that make Tony’s toes curl: “Always like riling me up, don’t you, Stark,” he grunts, fucking his fingers up into Tony like it’s his job, slicking him inside and out and grinding the heel of his palm against the sensitive spot behind his balls on every third thrust until the only coherent thought running through Tony’s mind is Steve’s name._

_Silenced by the hand over his mouth, Tony expresses his feelings by pushing back against Steve’s hand in perfect synchrony as he squeezes his bared thighs against Steve’s waist, which, fuck, he’s still wearing the suit, they need to have post-mission arguments more often. “Yeah, that’s it,” Steve rumbles against his cheek, burying a third finger, thick and dripping into Tony’s ass as he does, “you just want me to fuck you like this all the time, don’t you? Keep you pinned and open so I can slide in any time I want.” Tony keens against Steve’s palm, nodding so hard he dizzies himself; Steve groans and moves his hand to open Tony’s mouth with his thumb. “Say it, Tony,” he orders, and that’s definitely his Captain America voice, fuck—_

_“Want you to keep me open,” he gasps, helpless to stop from drooling all over Steve’s thumb still perched on his bottom lip as his other hand drives Tony into a frenzy, hard and insistent but not hitting him where he needs it, it’s not_ enough, _“never want you to stop fucking me, want you to fill me up until I leak, plug me u-up—ungh, fuck,_ Steve _...”_

_“I would,” Steve says before kissing Tony again, slow and sensual the way his fingers aren’t, fanning out and plunging in again and again and again until Tony can feel how exposed he is, gaping and trembling and so, so wet. Steve’s still kissing him when he pulls his hand out and, after a moment’s fumbling, drops his belt and opens the front of his uniform pants._

_Tony moans into the scorching kiss when Steve drags the head of his massive cock through the lube dripping out of him, fisting the rest of his length with what’s left on his hand from fingering Tony open. “Can’t imagine a world where I wouldn’t want to,” he whispers, covering Tony’s mouth with his hand again as he guides his dick into that too-empty place inside Tony. He slides in, watching Tony’s face with a possessive gleam in his eye, cheeks and ears red with arousal and exertion. That hot, slick slide makes his head spin every time, the stretch an incontrovertible reminder that this is_ Steve _, Steve who slots so perfectly into place like he belongs there, who fills Tony to absolute capacity and then fucks him so good it’s any wonder Tony can keep quiet. He holds Steve’s hand over his mouth and presses down to smother the noises leaking out him, high-pitched whines and gasps as Steve drives in deep and pulls out to the tip, looking down to admire the view with a dangerous smile before plunging back in hard and fast, pinging Tony’s prostate spot-on every time like it was a fucking doorbell. He does it once, twice, slow and steady as he considers the angle and the pace, watching his dick glisten before disappearing back into Tony’s all-too-willing-body, and then he gives Tony a look, and Tony knows he’s doomed._

 _It’s quick and dirty and wet and Steve has to bite Tony’s neck to keep_ himself _quiet; Tony hangs on for dear life as Steve bounces him ruthlessly on his cock, holding him up against the wall by the strength of his chest against Tony’s and his broad, heavy hand over Tony’s mouth and the constant, driving force of his hips as he fucks him. The belly of Steve’s uniform brushing up against the head of Tony’s otherwise untouched dick every time Steve plunges into him is the most erotic kiss, a damp buss of sweat and pre-come against kevlar and leather that sets every one of Tony’s nerve endings on edge._

_“So good, Tony, oh, fuck—” Steve groans under his breath, palming Tony’s thigh before pulling the leg out wide to better accommodate his bulk. Tony can’t think; he can only barely remember to breathe. He might be making a noise, but if he is only dogs and supersoldiers can hear it, probably. What were they fighting about again? What’s his last name? The only word in his head is Steve, SteveSteveSteveSteveohfuckSteve..._

_“Take it so good, Tony, yes, baby, yes, yes...” Steve holds Tony close in his powerful grip as he comes, shaking and gasping, inside Tony’s ass. Tony can feel the throb of it against his rim, the heat and heft of Steve’s dick inescapably everywhere inside him, and then he_ keeps going _, fucking Tony with his big, beautiful cock in a rapid battery of thrusts, loud and sloppy with his come, never letting up on Tony’s prostate even as he trembles and gasps against Tony’s shoulder like he’s just run a marathon. Tony’s eyes roll up inside his head. Everything is buzzing, his blood pure fire with the need to come; he hasn’t shot off untouched in years, but trust Steve Rogers to surprise Tony every which way from Sunday. Steve is whispering in his ear again, praising him as the fingers of his free hand drift down to feel where they’re connected, the froth of Steve’s come easing the roughness of that touch. Tony chokes on a cry. The knot of orgasm is right there in his pelvis—all Steve has to do is fuck him, there, right, there, yes, oh, fuck...  
_

_“So beautiful, Tony. Love watching you come for me.”  
_

_Steve pulls his hand away as Tony comes and kisses him, swallows the desperate sounds of his orgasm like he’s starved for them. He keeps Tony pinned safely to the wall as Tony’s legs give out and shoots ropes of come all over his own chest. He’s shaking like a leaf from head to toe and can’t even muster enough bandwidth to feel shame—Steve loves it, after all, and says so, kissing the words one by one into his mouth like tiny prayers. Loves the way Tony lets go, loves how he trusts Steve like this, how he looks when all he can feel is the pleasure Steve gives him._

_“Could hold you like this forever,” he says, once Tony can open his eyes. Tony smiles, his bruised and tender lips straining: there’s a drop of come on the underside of Steve’s jaw. He brushes it off with a sigh and sucks it off his thumb. The glimmer of interest in Steve’s eye is echoed by the twitch of his cock, still buried hilt-deep in Tony’s ass._

_“Deal,” Tony hums, leaning forward to kiss Steve long and heartily, one last time before they have to go back out into the world and pretend this—their relationship—isn’t a thing that exists.  
_

_They’ll talk, eventually._

Tony pours the hot water into the press and watches the grounds float up and swirl around in the dark. 

“Sure,” he says, not turning around to look at Steve, as much as he wants to. It’s for the best, he reminds himself for the thousandth time that day. The less he looks at Steve, the easier this will be for him. For both of them. “Send ’em through the server so JARVIS can throw them up for me when I get back to the lab tonight.” 

There’s a moment of silence so immense it’s any wonder Tony can’t hear his own heartbeat. Then:

“Tony.” Oh, no. He knows that ‘Tony,’ and it’s everything he can do to not shut his eyes as he braces himself for what comes next: “Could you—turn around?”

Steve doesn’t even have to use his Captain America voice to get Tony to do as he asks. By the end, it was like that all the time: Steve would ask, and Tony would oblige, and the ease with which they learned to communicate as a couple was unlike anything Tony could have hoped for, except for the part where Tony didn’t want to go public with their relationship and could never get Steve to understand _why._

Looking at Steve now, Tony withers, wishing the kitchen floor would open up and swallow him whole. Steve still looks a million times better than Tony feels, but there’s a pinching around his eyes that Tony recognizes as concern, and it shouldn’t make his heart sing to know Steve can still feel that about him, but it does. Backlit by the morning sun coming in unobscured through the mansion’s massive windows, Steve looks like an angel come to earth, bright and warm and golden. Tony feels small and twisted and hollow in comparison. Weak. A coward, who let this man slip through his fingers for fear of losing him later on down the line.

“Are you doing okay? I know we—things kind of...ended, abruptly.” Steve says the word ‘ended’ like it tastes bad. His face screws up like he’s sucked a rancid lemon. It’d be endearing if it wasn’t directed at Tony for Tony’s sake. “I’ve been worried about you.” 

Tony waves a hand at him, smiling beatifically like the words don’t make him want to drop to his knees and beg Steve’s forgiveness. 

“I’m fine, Cap,” he replies, not _Steve_ , and even Tony can tell Steve is pained by the change of address by the way his fingers clench around the towel in his hands. “You?”

Steve visibly swallows. "I’m fine,” he says, and he sounds like it. He certainly looks like it, smiling like the free man he is. Fine might actually be the truth, in Steve’s case, even if it isn’t in Tony’s.

“Glad to hear it!” Tony almost shouts as he pivots back to his coffee, pressing down on the plunger too soon, but he’s so harried by being there in the kitchen with Steve on his first day back to worry about a weak brew. 

“Sir, I’m being told to remind you that your ten o’ clock is waiting for you at your office.” 

Tony winces. “What time is it, J?” 

“The time is currently ten twenty-nine.” 

“I’ll let you go, then,” Steve says, already leaving the kitchen before Tony can respond with anything. He manages to catch Steve’s eye as he waves back at Tony on his way out. _He looks happy_ , Tony reminds himself. _You let him go so he could be happy. You have to let him be happy._

The coffee scalds when he drinks it, but the burn is good. It reorients the pain currently trying to wring the blood out of Tony’s heart, gives him something to focus on that isn’t this unbearable, overwhelming sense of regret. Heat to burn away the creeping chill that breaking up with Steve was the biggest mistake Tony’s ever made in his life. 

_After four months of pushing the conversation off for another day, four months of dating in secret—sneaking touches when the others have their backs turned, never spending the night in each other’s beds even after bouts of sex so intense they can’t remember how their legs work, pretending not to care more than is reasonable when one of them goes down in a fight—Steve finally sits Tony down and asks him why._

_Or, more accurately, he makes love to Tony slowly and sweetly for what feels like hours, until Tony is literally crying from pleasure and the overwhelming need to come, and then when Tony finally,_ finally _breaks and whispers that magic word, “Please,” Steve bends him almost in half with a groan that shakes the bed and then plows home until Tony is sobbing and tearing the sheets as he comes._

_Then, when they’re both sated and clean and curled up on the dry side of Tony’s California King, Steve places a hand on Tony’s stomach. Tony can feel it shaking, and he knows what Steve’s about to say._

_“I want to tell the team.”  
_

_Tony closes his eyes and groans. “Steve...”_

_“Please, Tony. We need to have this conversation. We should have had it ages ago.”  
_

_So much for enjoying the afterglow. Tony sits upright in bed, warmed by Steve’s hand coming to rest on his thigh. The other man stays laid out next to him, looking up at Tony like he’s his guiding light when all Tony’s done is drive him to this point: Steve, nervous, looking guilty for asking for something of Tony he doesn’t have the courage to give._

_“I just...you remember, when I told you about Princess Diana?”  
_

_Steve looks confused for a moment. When understanding sets in, smoothing his features out to an expression of wary comprehension, Tony feels a rush of love so intense he has to lie back down just to keep the blood from rushing to his head. Steve Rogers is so much smarter than anyone gives him credit for. It’s Tony’s second favorite thing about him._

_“You’re worried I’m going to get killed being chased by paparazzi?” He says, moving in close and reaching out for Tony’s hand. Tony takes it, weaves their fingers together in a perfect fit. He stares at Steve’s fingers instead of looking him in the eye. Steve’s fingers are his fifth favorite thing about his boyfriend._

_“In a sense,” Tony replies. “I’m worried about what happens to us when ‘us’ no longer involves you and me, but everyone—the team, Pepper, the board, the government, our enemies...I’m worried that once the press gets a hit of us, they’re going to drain us dry, and all of it—the gossip, the speculation, the invasiveness...it’s going to drive us apart.”  
_

_“Tony,” Steve sighs, leaning forward to kiss Tony’s forehead. Tony can’t help but press into the gesture. He can feel Steve’s lips curve up in a smile when he does. “You’ve been holding on to this all this time?”  
_

_“It’s a valid concern, Steve.”  
_

_“Maybe,” he replies. “And maybe it’s something you could have discussed with me before unilaterally deciding to keep our relationship a secret.”  
_

_There’s a deep undercurrent of hurt in Steve’s voice, and Tony would beat himself with the Hulk’s fist if Steve would let him for putting it there. Tony wills himself to meet Steve’s gaze then—even in the semi-darkness of his bedroom, light seems to spill out of Steve. His eyes are bright and focused, tracking Tony’s face like he’s reading a tactical map. Naked, post-coital glow is a good look on Steve, as is pretty much anything, if Tony’s being honest._

_“Can you blame me?”  
_

_“Tony,” Steve sighs again, like it pains him, and Tony winces at that tone coming out of Steve’s mouth. “I wish you loved yourself half as much as you love me.”_

_Wow. “Wow,” Tony says, jerking backward like Steve just gut-punched him. Already Steve is scrambling, tangling his legs up in Tony’s expensive sheets as he sits upright._

_“That’s not—hell, Tony, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”  
_

_“And how_ did _you mean it, Steve?”_

_“I just...you think this hasn’t crossed my mind before? Going public and losing our privacy in the process? You’re talking like you’ve already decided that the end of our relationship is inevitable because the world is going to drive us apart, and I know the reality is something else, something you feel like would be your fault, and I don’t like you thinking so little of yourself that I would let that happen.”  
_

_Tony gapes up at Steve, floundering like a fish for words that won’t come. Steve bends over him, brushing their lips together in the gentlest caress of a kiss in order to kickstart Tony’s brain._

_“Just talk to me, Tony.”  
_

_Tony places a hand over Steve’s heart to feel it beating. It’s comforting in a way nothing else is. His heart’s far and away Tony’s favorite thing about Steve Rogers._

_“It’s—this is my whole life, Steve,” he says. At Steve’s confused expression, he goes on: “The press. The world, thinking its owed every piece of your life story, including and especially the things you’re still trying to work through.” He thinks back to when he read an article about Sunset Bain shortly after her betrayal, an “investigative exposé” on their relationship and her seemingly-overnight rise to success. It was tabloid pablum, at best, but it still scraped at something raw and vulnerable in Tony. Or, even worse, the explosion of press following his parents’ death, the countless headlines, the day-in, day-out of it all, phone calls and bell ringers and paparazzi camped outside the tower. The cumulative effect put a stop to a healing process that had barely begun, and Tony was still dealing with the fallout of that._

_“I’m also terrified you’ll wake up one day, look out the window and see a throng of paparazzi outside waiting to grill you about the latest cheating scandal or accuse you of abusing me because someone saw bruises on me after I fought a Skrull wearing your face, and you’ll decide you don’t want to put up with any of it anymore.” Tony takes a deep breath. “But all of that? That comes with me, Steve. I wish it didn’t. You can’t know how much I wish it didn’t. But that’s the reality we live in, and I wanted—I just wanted to keep you to myself for as long as possible, before they got their hooks in you and you decided I wasn’t worth it.”  
_

_Steve looks at him for a long time and doesn’t touch. He stays in place, leaning over Tony, one hand next to Tony’s head, the other trapped underneath it, and just reads Tony like the open book he’s revealed himself to be, cowardice and all. When the silence reaches the point of suffocation, Tony lets his hand fall from Steve’s chest._

_That’s that, then._

_“I’ll let you get some sleep,” he says, moving to work his way out from under Steve when the other man stops him with a hand on his hip. Tony pauses and looks up, sees Steve staring down at him with all the love and consternation Tony’s used to seeing there in his smiling blue eyes.  
_

_“Stay,” Steve whispers before leaning down for a kiss. Tony gives it to him. He’d give him everything if he could. He’s helpless to do anything else, not when he loves Steve Rogers this much.  
_

Tony finishes his meeting with the clean energy consultant—an engaging, exciting discussion about bringing arc reactor tech and associated jobs to underserved communities in the mid-west and Appalachia, for starters—just in time for a text from Rhodey: _Don’t turn on the news._

He’d just managed to scrounge up a good mood during that meeting. It would be a shame to ruin it so soon. Naturally, he does exactly what Rhodey told him not to do and turns on the TV in his office. He does it expecting reports of a stock drop, or Stark weapons being sold on the black market. He doesn’t expect to come face to face with footage of Steve laughing freely with his arm around Sam Wilson’s shoulders, Sam’s hand wrapped snug around Steve’s bony hip, the two of them walking together down 5th Avenue in the sunshine. 

The entertainment “news” “reporter” says this footage was taken minutes ago on a bystander’s cellphone. Tony sinks into a chair in front of the widescreen TV, helpless to stare as he watches the 15 second clip repeat itself over and over as the airbrushed talking heads gush and gossip about Sam and Steve, two all-American good guys making up the hottest couple since sliced bread. 

Of course Steve would end up with Sam, Tony thinks. Sam is the kind of good Tony could never hope to be—no blood on his hands, at least not like Tony has and can never wash off, no matter how many lives he saves. He’s Steve’s age, and smart, and stable, and trustworthy down to his core. He’s also hot as hell, Tony can easily admit, even if Steve burns hotter than anyone who enters his orbit. Tony once joked with Steve that Tony was the ugly one in their relationship, but Steve’s sour expression had stopped Tony from expanding on that particular line of self-deprecating humor.

And, god, when did Steve ever laugh like that with Tony? Sometimes he got close, coming up with little _bon mots_ that made Steve throw his head back and guffaw, but that beaming smile and the way his laugh booms and echoes across bustling 5th Avenue is unlike anything Tony ever saw when he and Steve were together. 

He looks relaxed and happy in all the ways he never was with Tony. _Because you never let the world see you together_ , a little voice reminds him. It sounds remarkably like JARVIS. Steve deserves happiness. It’s why Tony let him go. After their heavy-duty pillow talk (and another memorable round of lovemaking, with Tony taking the reins and fucking Steve on his stomach through the mattress until he was crying and begging for release), he’d asked for a little more time to work through his issues. Steve, ever the patient boyfriend, had granted it to him. Tony had offered up moving in together as a compromise, which had thrilled Steve endlessly. But when two weeks became a month, and a month became two, and Steve’s mood only soured further and further until every conversation became an argument and every argument ended in slammed doors and heavy silence, it became clear to Tony that this wasn’t an issue he was going to be able to work through in time to keep Steve, keep him happy, keep him _his._

So he let him go. And now Steve’s with Sam, who’s seized the opportunity to show Steve off to the world, and who can blame him? If Tony had been stronger, more self-assured, more defiant of the assumptions placed on him by the world around him— _if he’d loved himself even half as much as he loved Steve Rogers_ —that would be him taking Steve shopping, making him laugh and smile as he tucked his hand around that lovely hip and held him close while the world watched on in envy. 

But he was a coward, and now he’s watching footage of Sam on a date with Steve play on a loop while vapid, boneheaded commentators speculate about their relationship. 

Tony’s phone buzzes again with another text from Rhodey. _I told you not to watch._

He tosses the phone away and buries his face in his hands with the beginnings of a sob, a sound he chokes down like the booze he kind of wishes he still drank. He’s not proud of the thought, but the misery of truly losing Steve—and any hope of fixing what he broke between them—has opened a window to everything he’d ignored while in Malibu, sunning himself and pretending he hadn’t wounded himself beyond repair. 

Tony leaves the TV on, hunches over on himself, and _just_ as he’s about to let the tears fall, an obnoxious beeping rouses him. 

“Wha—?”

“Sir, there are reports of an attack on 5th Avenue,” JARVIS announces. Dread drops a block of ice down Tony’s throat, so cold and horrible it almost freezes him in place. _What if Steve..._

Tony is up and calling the suit before the thought can finish itself. It’s waiting for him in the lobby by the time he steps off the elevator, rushing to fill the vacancy as panic claws at his throat. “J, cross-streets.” 

“The Wrecking Crew are currently being engaged at the intersection of 5th and 26th.” 

Engaged is a nice euphemism for _attacking_ , and Tony knows without having to ask JARVIS that the focus of the attack was on Steve and Sam, whose location was just broadcast to the entire world. 

He flies faster than he’s technically allowed within city limits, but the law can wait. Steve’s life can’t. Unlike the armor, Steve can’t call his uniform to himself, nor can Sam sprout wings and fly them out of there at the drop of a hat; they’re two against four heavy hitters, and as much faith as Tony has in Steve and Sam’s abilities, those are odds he’s not willing to gamble on. 

_“For the last time, Tony, I’m alright.”_

_“Oh yeah, Cap? Tell that to the_ eighteen inches of rebar _SHIELD medical just had to_ surgically remove _from your_ thigh _.”  
_

_Steve is struggling to sit upright in his hospital bed, one leg fixed firmly in place by a mummy’s worth of bandages. Tony keeps himself to the far wall so he can look at Steve—alive, thank Odin and Thor and any other Asgardians whose names Tony can’t remember—and not be tempted to touch him, hold him, kiss him like he wants to, has wanted to for_ years _and has never admitted to. It’s hard to keep himself away when Steve almost just died, but he manages. He always does._

_“Did everyone make it out okay?” Steve grunts. Tony knocks his head back against the wall hard enough to hurt._

_“You got everyone out_ before _you let the building fall on you, remember? Oh, of course you don’t, because a whole_ building fucking fell on you _while you were still in it!”_

_“Tony...” Steve is squinting and holds a hand up to his head. Tony didn’t even consider Steve’s concussion when he started shouting, fuck.  
_

_“I’m sorry, Cap—fuck.” He wipes a hand down his face. “That rebar missed your femoral artery by a quarter of an inch. You’ve got a concussion and broken ribs and the only reason you’re still alive is because of the serum. Watching—ugh, I need to sit down for this.”_

_Tony takes the shitty plastic chair next to Steve’s bed and sits down hard enough he wonders if it will break. He’s close enough now to see the mottled bruising that’s made an Impressionist painting out of Steve’s handsome, perfect face, but somehow the discoloration doesn’t detract from the beauty of this man. It just makes him seem more human—precious, even. Tony folds his hands in his lap and does not look at Steve’s hand hanging over the side of the bed in front of him._

_He draws a deep breath and lets it out with a rush of words: “Watching you almost bleed out on the street was the most awful thing I’ve ever seen, Steve. The thought of losing you was even worse. So don’t tell me you’re alright when you’re not, because I’m_ definitely _not alright, and I wasn’t just shish kabab’ed by a rusty piece of metal through the thigh.”_

_Steve hums thoughtfully, like he always does when he’s thinking something new and meaningful for the first time. Tony looks up and catches his eye, or rather Steve catches his—like a fish on a hook. When his lips turn up in a knowing smile, Tony knows something is up._

_“You called me Steve.”  
_

_“Uh,” Tony frowns, “Yeah, ‘cause it’s your name.”  
_

_“You must have been really scared if you’re upset enough to use my name.”  
_

_“Don’t tease me, Cap. I don’t respond well to teasing.”  
_

_Steve’s eyes light up with something Tony might hazard to call joy._

_“And what_ do _you respond well to?”  
_

_Tony looks at Steve, then at Steve’s hand, which has turned upside down, fingers hooked ever so slightly inward—an invitation if Tony’s ever seen one, and he’s seen more than his fair share. He stands up from his crap chair and steps in close enough to breathe Steve’s air and feel the warmth—the life—radiating off of him like rays off the sun. Steve looks like hell, beaten and bruised and only a couple hours removed from standing at Death’s door, and Tony has never seen anything more beautiful. Steve’s resilience is a wonder to behold, let alone draw from. It’s his...fourth favorite thing about him._

_But can it really be this easy?_

_Tony opens his mouth and says it. “Positive reinforcement?”_

_Steve’s answering smile cracks his lips again from where they split during the battle, but Tony is too caught up in kissing them—kissing_ Steve— _to care. And then Steve takes his hand and holds it, and Tony vows then and there to never, ever let go._

The HUD is a brightly colored mess of information: live police reports from the ground, vital signs of wounded civilians, schematics of every building between 28th and the Flatiron, but all Tony needs to know is where Steve is, and if he’s okay. 

_Please, please be okay._

He dials into the Avengers main comm line as he scans each building for heat signatures. “Cap, pick up.” 

“Tony!” Steve’s voice comes through loud and clear and audibly relieved, which melts some of that frozen terror still lodged in Tony’s chest. “124 5th Avenue—we managed to lure the Crew down to the basement, but—” Steve’s report cuts off with a startled, agonized cry. Tony curses and heads for the address, flying right through the front entrance (which isn’t really an entrance anymore so much as a giant hole in the wall) and dropping down through the gaping hole in the center of top floor all the way to the basement. The Wrecking Crew did some heavy damage in a short amount of time, as is their way, but Tony isn’t worried about the bill right now.

“Cap!” 

A sound like a hammer on an anvil echoes through the basement, followed shortly by another cry. Angry, this time, not at all like Steve’s. Tony floods the place with light from the armor, both arms up and ready for action, drawing the attention of the four behemoths fighting blind all the way in the back. 

“Candygram for Mongo,” Tony chirps as Thunderball takes a running start at him. He brings him down with a power-dampening electric net, which drops him like a sealed sausage onto the cold basement floor. Bulldozer is next, rushing Tony on his left flank while his hand is down. Classic mistake, thinking that just because Iron Man’s gauntlet is down he’s defenseless: Bulldozer takes a swing and clips Tony’s shoulder, which only unbalances Tony for a moment before he recovers and fires a volley of flares right into Bulldozer’s masked face. 

Bulldozer roars and backs away, tears streaming as he tries to see his way past the fiery sparks. 

“Cap, report!” 

“Over here, To—agh!” 

_Fuck, no_. Tony shackles Bulldozer with twin sets of reinforced power-dampening manacle and leaves him writhing on the floor in pain next to Thunderball before going off into the dark expanse of the old basement in search of Steve. Sam he finds on the way, locked in hand-to-hand combat with Wrecker—Tony pauses on his way to Steve to knock Sam’s opponent out with an iron hand to the back of the skull. 

“I had him!” Sam shouts, even as relief washes over his strained features. Iron Man shrugs, hovering a few inches above concrete. 

“You can take all the credit,” Tony says. He tells himself it doesn’t come out as bitter and envious as he feels, knowing that Sam has what Tony was fool enough to let go of, but now’s not the time for any of that. He jets off to look for Steve, Sam in hot pursuit; the basement is a labyrinth the further in they go. Old brownstones and their ridiculous planning are the bane of Tony’s existence, both as a landlord and as a superhero currently trying to find his ex-boyfriend in the maze of bricks. 

He banks hard around a corner when he hears Steve curse, gauntlets up so he can see: Piledriver at Steve’s back with an arm around his neck, and even against Steve’s considerable size the guy looms large, threatening the choke the life out of Steve with a smile on his face.

“Ah, there’s your knight in shining armor!” Piledriver cackles, squeezing his arm harder around Steve’s neck. Steve is turning purple, scratching and kicking at the body behind him to no avail. It’s hard to get a good shot in a dark, contained space like this—a bullet might ricochet and hit Steve, or Sam, and absolutely no way in hell is he firing off a bomb down here. Tony doesn’t linger on the _knight in shining armor_ comment. He lowers his hands, repulsors whining as they power down. 

“What do you want, Piledriver?” God, seriously, the _names_ these schmucks come up with...

“Just waiting for the cavalry to arrive!” With a bloody grin, Piledriver reveals his other hand: in it, an old Stark bomb that went off the market _years_ ago. 

That cold block in Tony’s chest spreads to his extremities. _Oh no._

“Alright, Piledriver. You let Captain America and Falcon go, you can have me. Deal?” 

Steve struggles harder, gritting his teeth against the pressure cutting off his air supply. Piledriver holds the bomb out to his side, cackling again—that manic laugh always unsettles something in Tony. All he has to do is drop the bomb on its tail to hit the pressurized switch and in seconds, they’re all goners. The only good news is that the blast radius itself isn’t significant: if he can get Steve and Sam far enough out of the way, that should be enough to save them. 

“JARVIS,” he says, switching over to private comms, “single shot to the head should do it.” 

“Sir—”

“ _Now_ , J.” 

The concealed gun in Iron Man’s shoulder appears with a hiss of metal—the bullet is out in less than a second, hitting Piledriver square in the center of the head. It’s not enough to kill him, but it dazes him long enough for Steve to escape his grasp and knock him back with an elbow to the sternum. Tony rockets forward and grabs Steve, one eye still on Piledriver behind him. 

“Tony!” Steve rasps, holding onto the suit like a lifeline. 

“Falcon!” Tony shouts. Sam appears from behind the corner. “Go long, and take care of him.” 

Even in the HUD display, Steve is the most beautiful thing Tony’s ever seen.

“Tony, what—”

Without another word and with all the grace of a major league pitcher, Tony pivots and launches Steve bodily at Sam, who catches him in his arms in a full bear hug before hauling him around the corner behind the brick wall. By the time Tony turns around, Piledriver’s hand has gone slack. 

The bomb drops. In the spare second he has to react, Tony grabs Piledriver and hurls him across the room, mostly out of harm’s way, then launches himself on the bomb just as it hits the floor. 

Even as the world whites out in a deafening blast of fire and stone, Tony thinks he hears Steve screaming his name. 

_I really do love him, Tony realizes, watching from his spot at the breakfast bar as Steve busies himself removing an entire cookie sheet’s worth of bacon from the oven. The oven mitts are the same shade of blue as Steve’s uniform and dotted with little shields, a novelty gift he bought Steve years ago that apparently has yet to yield the desired levels of embarrassment Tony had originally hoped for. He’s also wearing nothing but boxers and a white cotton tank, showing off the mountain range that is Steve’s shoulders to their fullest effect._

_“How many pieces do you want?”  
_

_“How many you got?”  
_

_Steve laughs. “Enough for_ you _, anyways.” He’s still glowing with happiness, hair mussed, pillow lines still etched into his cheek. They took a risk last night—slept together in Tony’s big bed and woke up to the sun shining through the bedroom window and an empty mansion. Steve was so excited, he could hardly wait for Tony to get his bearings before he was slipping underneath the covers and taking Tony into his mouth._

_For once, Tony didn’t worry about how much noise he made in bed._

_Now, he gets to reap the benefits of one of his favorite aspects of Steve Rogers: his enviable cooking skills. There’s bacon and eggs and waffles and whipped cream and homemade blackberry jam and lemon butter and toast. It’s enough to feed the Avengers twice over, which means it’s just enough for Steve, and more than enough for Tony._

_They eat together side by side, playing footsie under the counter even though there’s no one here to see them, giggling like naughty schoolboys as they lick cream and jam off each other’s lips and fingers between bites of actual food. Steve still has a lot of eating to do even as Tony’s finishes, but that doesn’t mean Tony has to leave his mouth unoccupied in the meantime._

_He says as much, and Steve’s eyes darken to that perfect shade of dark blue. He spins his seat around just enough for Tony to fit between his legs and still be able to eat off his plate. Before Tony starts to kneel, Steve drags him in for a buttery lemon kiss that almost makes Tony think twice about going anywhere that isn’t Steve’s lips. He steadies himself with both hands on Steve’s massive thighs, being careful of Steve’s freshly-healed puncture wound, before using one hand to take Steve’s cock out. Steve’s had two orgasms this morning already, but he’s hard and hot and leaking like they never stopped._

_“God, I love you,” Tony gasps before licking into Steve’s mouth. He fits in Tony’s hand like he belongs there, big and hard, hot and wet. Tony works him slowly, firmly, the way he’s learned Steve likes: thumbing the frenulum in little circles until Steve is shuddering and making soft little ‘uhn-uhn-uhn’ sounds in the back of his throat, then slicking the shaft with pre-come with long passes of his palm and then taking him fully in hand to fuck him hard and fast within the tight circle of his fingers. Tony’s calluses bump over the gorgeous, pronounced vein in Steve’s dick, and Steve whimpers like he’s being driven out of his mind with pleasure every time they do, right into Tony’s waiting mouth._

_Finally, Tony starts to pull away from Steve so he can kneel and put his lips to better use, but Steve groans and wraps a hand around Tony’s wrist as he jacks him, stopping his descent by pressing a desperate kiss against Tony’s lips with a whine and gasping: “Please—stay up here. Stay with me.”  
_

_Steve is so sweet like this, rumpled and needy and moving his hips into Tony’s touch with little hitching breaths, faster and faster as Tony speeds up his strokes. Tony says it, says I love you Steve, always loved you, always will, love you, love you, his hand a noisy blur over Steve’s big, slick cock, his own head cradled delicately in Steve’s big, soft hands as Steve kisses him and kisses him and kisses him like this is everything he’s ever wanted, ever needed, ever will._

_His thigh is shaking violently under Tony’s hand. Steve’s cock swells and he moans into Tony’s mouth, pulling his face even closer to him by the scalp. “Love—oh god, Tony, I love—I love you,” he says, voice watery, breaking as he tips over the brink headfirst into orgasm, “Don’t stop, fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop, I love you, love you, love you—”_

_One day, Tony will let Steve shout it from the rooftops—when he does, he’ll be right there next to him._

If there’s beeping, Tony thinks, he must be in Hell. That’s the only possible explanation for it. It doesn’t cross his mind that he’s in a hospital until he hears a sound like a relieved gasp somewhere out there where the world isn’t pain and nausea and everything spinning in the wrong direction. 

“Augh, fuck.” 

“Try— _oh thank God_ , try not to move, Tony, hold on.” There’s a hand cradling the back of his head, all of a sudden, and a cold plastic cup is being pressed to his lips. Ice chips, he realizes. He remembers cold, a freezing sensation, terror, Sam, _Steve—_

“Steve...” 

“I’m here, sweetheart. I’m here.” Steve urges him to eat some of the ice chips with gentle nudges of the cup against his mouth. Tony obliges him, because of course he does. The water soothes his sore throat and clears the fog from his brain a little, enough to get a better sense of his surroundings. 

He’s in a SHIELD recovery room. Nothing is immobilized, which means nothing’s broken, which is a relief. He can hear and see, but his head hurts like a building fell on it. 

“That’s because it did,” Steve tells him. 

Oh. “Was I talking out loud again?” 

God, he missed Steve’s laugh, especially his _Yes, I’m laughing AT you, Tony_ chuckle. He also missed that gentle brush of fingers against his forehead, right under his hairline, the way Steve knew exactly how to gentle Tony with his touch and voice and presence. 

“I missed you too,” Steve says. Tony blinks but still can’t really see straight. Those bricks really packed a wallop. “Rest, Tony. I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

True to his word, when Tony wakes again, Steve is there, sitting in the same crappy plastic chair Tony sat in last time and holding Tony’s hand, watching him come to like Tony is something magical to behold. 

“Hey, mister,” Steve smiles. His eyes are red but otherwise clear. “How’s your head?” 

Tony winces. “Harder than it looks.” Steve laughs, so, mission accomplished there, but he won’t let go of Tony’s hand. If anything, Steve just draws closer, brushing his thumb against the back of Tony’s hand like a metronome. 

“Doctor says you can come home in the morning,” he says in a low voice. The lights are dim, Tony notices, and the blinds are shut. There are more ice chips on the table next to the bed, which Steve hands to him without prompting.

Swallowing around the nameless knot in his throat, Tony blinks up at Steve and asks, “How’s Sam?” 

Steve smiles. “Sam’s fine. A little pissed off at you for not giving him enough of a heads up before you threw me at him like a glorified football, but he’ll live.” 

Tony’s relieved, of course he is, but the knot in his throat starts to taste sour the longer he thinks about Sam waiting up at home for Steve while Steve fusses over Tony, who only has a concussion and a broken heart to show for having a building dropped on his head. 

This time, he manages to keep all that to himself. Instead, Tony cracks a little smile and says, “Good. That’s...that’s good.” 

Steve, however, looks puzzled. “You told him to take care of me.” 

“I did? When?” Tony wheezes. He occupies himself and his mouth with ice chips and doesn’t look Steve in the eye when he answers: 

“Right before you launched me at him.” 

“Like a glorified football?” 

Funny, the room has stopped spinning, but Tony still feels off-kilter, like everything is a little unbalanced. Or maybe that’s just Steve, and the way he’s looking at Tony, hard and scrutinizing but relieved. Tony’s felt the same relief before, with Steve—the knowledge that despite a dangerously close call, the man he loves most in the world is still alive, and is here with him, despite everything. 

“Tony,” Steve says, leaning closer, squeezing Tony’s hand, “I’m not with Sam.” 

_Oh_. “Oh. No?”

“No, Tony. And to spare you the suspense, I think the cat’s out of the bag in terms of you and me.” 

“Uh. What?” 

That cold feeling floods him again, freezing his heart in place as Steve reaches for the TV remote. The screen flickers on, vibrant colors taking shape as a reporter recounts the events of that afternoon’s attack by the Wrecking Crew and how Iron Man saved the day. The footage captures the moment the bomb exploded, windows blowing out onto the street and the structure collapsing into a heap of rubble and brick dust; it had been fully evacuated by the time Tony showed up on the scene, apparently, and thank goodness. 

But what steals the show isn’t the bad guys being paraded out into the waiting SHIELD trucks, still immobilized by Tony’s tech—it’s Steve, carrying Iron Man out onto the street in a bridal carry while Sam waves bystanders back. Both of them are covered in dust, but Steve catches the camera’s particular attention: it zooms in on his dusty face, which is streaked with crisp lines of tears as Steve lowers Iron Man onto the pavement and rips off his faceplate. The camera is too far away and there’s too much ambient noise to hear it, but Tony can see Steve’s mouth shaping itself around Tony’s name, can see him gritting his teeth as he begs Tony to wake up and cries all the while like his world is ending. 

Paramedics rush in even as Steve bows his head to Tony’s chest, palm covering the arc reactor in a vice as they try to pull Tony away from him. They’re trying to move him away gently, but Steve is inconsolable, throwing hands and spitting mad, all but launching himself at anyone who dares put a hand on Tony. 

Unwittingly, Tony squeezes Steve’s hand, just to know he’s okay. They’re okay. 

The reporter is breathless as she gives the play-by-play of everything that happens next on screen: Tony’s helmet coming off in Steve’s hands, Steve sobbing openly over his unresponsive body, Steve leaning down and kissing him like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do, right before Sam and Thor come up behind him and pull him away so the paramedics can get to work. 

Steve turns off the TV with a sigh. “It’s been playing nonstop for almost twenty-four hours,” he says. He won’t look Tony in the eye. “I’m sorry.” 

“What—” Tony’s brain is still rebooting, recovering from the concussion and now trying to parse what he thinks his eyes just saw. “Why are you sorry?” 

Steve looks at their hands where they’re joined next to Tony’s thigh on the hospital bed. Tony can’t help but think how much better it would be if they were at home, in bed, together. 

“We broke up because you didn’t want the world to know about us,” Steve grumbles. “Now everyone definitely knows, and it took you almost dying for them to find out.” 

He sounds—god, he sounds miserable, is what he sounds like. Tony can sympathize, since he feels just as awful, and that was before he jumped on a bomb to save Steve’s life. 

The good news is, he and Sam aren’t dating. So. 

“I’m sorry, Steve.” 

“Don’t be, it’s my fault for losing my head. Heat of the moment, you know how it goes.” 

“Yeah, I do.” Tony squeezes his hand again, hard so Steve will look at him. He loves it when Steve looks at him—no one’s ever looked at Tony the way Steve does. He can’t even quantify it with words. There’s just Steve, and the way Steve _looks_ at him, and Tony knows he’d do anything to keep Steve looking at him like that. Like Tony is everything, the way Steve is to Tony. “But _I’m_ sorry, because I should have told the world about us ages ago.” 

Steve blinks. Even struck speechless and dumbfounded, Steve is the most gorgeous thing Tony’s ever seen. 

“What about your issues?” 

Tony husks a laugh. When the coughing subsides and the ice chips ease a path down his throat, he says, “I’ll probably always have them. The press is awful and it’ll only get worse. Just means I’ll need you to reassure me more often.”

Steve leans forward. “Reassure you of what, Tony?” he asks, like it’s important that Tony says the words outright. 

Tony lifts Steve’s hand and kisses his knuckles. He has so much making up to do, but now’s as good a time to start as any. 

“That you love me,” he says, “as much as I love you.” 

He can’t even finish grinning before Steve is on top of him, kissing every last trace of cold right out of Tony’s heart.

\- - -

**Author's Note:**

> stovetuna on tumblr


End file.
